Pearls

Pearls Page 13

by Colin Falconer

  Flynn mopped his face with his handkerchief.

  'You've gone quite pale,' George said.

  'You motherless bastard.'

  'Me? Why am I the villain in this, Flynn? Personally, I've no fondness for two-up and I never drank to excess, either. But I don't condemn those failings in others. I'm even happy to finance your vices, up to a point.'

  'You'll get your money.'

  George raised an eyebrow. 'You have another iron in the fire?'

  'Don't you worry about me or my irons! Soon I'll have you off my back forever.'

  George shook his head. 'I'm not your enemy, Patrick. Besides, if she leaves me, she won't go running back to Daddy. She has someone else in mind.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'McKenzie.'

  Flynn gulped the rest of his brandy.

  'Yes, he's been seeing her. Here in this house. One of the servants told me.'

  Flynn's face flushed the colour of raw liver. 'In your own house?'

  'Calm down.'

  'Calm down? Why should I calm down? Why should you? What the hell are you going to do about it, man?'

  'What can I do?'

  Flynn jumped to his feet and the cane chair clattered on its side. 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Maybe she's better off without you after all! If you were any sort of man you'd call him to account!'

  George gave Flynn a chill smile.

  'I ought to deal with the bastard myself if you're not man enough!'

  'You've tried that before, on two occasions by my count. Where did it get you?'

  Flynn picked up his hat and cane.

  'Where are you going?' George called after him.

  'I've business to attend to!' he shouted and then he was gone.

  ***

  Kate watched him go from between the slats of her bedroom window,. The sound of raised voices had woken her.

  'Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Maybe she's better off without you after all! If you were any sort of man you'd call him to account!'

  She felt a shiver of apprehension. Long after George had slipped into bed beside her she lay staring at the darkness. She was still awake when Sergeant Clarke knocked on the door, soon after midnight.

  ***

  It was a boisterous night at the Bosun's Regret. Fiddles sawed out an Irish reel and out on Dampier Terrace the music mingled with snatches of singing and piano from one of the pearler's bungalows. The solitary glow of a masthead light bobbed on the bay.

  Simeon waited on the beach in the shadows below the Streeter and Male stores. The squeal of a flying fox in the trees nearby made him start.

  Calm down, Simeon. If you are too nervous he will know there is something wrong.

  He heard footfall on the sand.

  'Espada! Are you there? It's me, Flynn!'

  'I'm here, boss.'

  He moved out of the shadows. It was a perfect night, the moon was no more than a sliver, it was plenty dark enough for deception. 'You have the money, boss?'

  'I've got it, my boy.'

  'Let me see it.'

  Flynn patted his jacket pocket. 'It's right here. First show me this pearl!'

  Simeon reached into his pocket and brought out a white handkerchief. He had wrapped a lemonade stopper inside. It was hard and large and round, convincing enough for his purpose.

  He handed it to Flynn.

  Flynn unwrapped it carefully. He couldn't see a damned thing. Cursing, he knelt down and spread the handkerchief on the sane. He reached into his pocket and produced a box of matches. He lit one.

  'Wait a minute ...'

  Simeon felt for the iron crook he had hung on the belt of his trousers. As Flynn looked up he brought it down hard on the other man's head.

  Flynn fell sideways on the sand. He hadn't hit him hard enough! To Simeon's horror he tried to get back on his feet, but he was like a punch-drunk boxer and he couldn't co-ordinate his arms and legs. 'Help me!' he roared. 'Murder!'

  Panicked, Simeon swung again, as hard as he could. Flynn put up an arm to fend off the blow and Simeon heard a loud crack as the bones in Flynn's forearm shattered. Flynn screamed. Simeon swung again. This time the blow connected with the back of Flynn's head. There was an ugly crunching sound, like someone stepping on a cabbage in heavy boots.

  Flynn lay still on the sand.

  Simeon threw away the bar and knelt down, turning out Flynn's pockets. He found a thick envelope of money and shoved it into his shorts. He heard someone running down Dampier Terrace. Someone must have heard Flynn's shouts.

  He got up and started to run.

  ***

  Cameron was headed back to his ship to turn in for the night when he heard the commotion on the beach. The Roebuck had been dragged up onto the shore for lay-up, and Cameron was sleeping on board while he had a camp built further up the beach, next to Ferguson's. When he heard the shouts he clambered down the coir ladder at the dock and ran down the sand in the direction of the Streeter and Male jetty.

  He saw someone running off along the strand. 'You there! Wait!' He started after him but tripped on something in the sand and fell headlong.

  For a moment the moon appeared from behind the clouds and he saw a body lying spread-eagled on the sand. He tried shaking him, and his right hand came away sticky and wet. Jesus! He looked over his shoulder and saw the other man silhouetted outlined against the pilings below Dampier Terrace. He ran after him.

  ***

  By the time Cameron got back to the beach, a crowd had gathered, some of them carrying kerosene lamps. Half a dozen men from the Bosun's Regret helped carry the body back up to the street.

  'Jesus, it's Flynn!' someone said

  'Someone's caved his head in!'

  One of the men - Cameron recognised him, it was the pearler, Lacey - tore open Flynn's shirt and put his ear to his chest. He shook his head. 'He's dead.'

  'Christ Almighty!'

  'What a mess.'

  One of them looked up at Cameron. 'Where did you come from?'

  'I heard someone call out. There was a man running up the beach towards Chinatown. I chased him.'

  Lacey looked at Cameron's hands, then at his shirt. 'There's blood all over you.'

  Cameron looked down, surprised. Lacey was right. 'I found him lying on the beach. I fell over him.'

  There was a long silence. 'Someone better call Sergeant Clarke,' Lacey grunted. Cameron realised everyone was staring at him, and he knew what they were thinking.

  Chapter 29

  Simeon scurried into an alley behind Bitter Moon Lane and fell against the wall, panting. He waited there until there was no one around and dashed up the stairs to his room.

  He locked the door, threw himself down on his bed and sobbed like a child.

  After a while he heard shouting form down in the lane. People were streaming out of the boarding houses and shops and running towards Dampier Terrace. He heard someone shout out 'Murder!'

  Murder. Murder? Holy Mary, Mother of God, no. He hadn't meant to kill him!

  They would hang a man for that!

  He ripped off his shirt and wiped Flynn off him best he could. Then he went down to the washhouse and cleaned up in one of the troughs. Then he went back to his room. He stared at his shirt lying crumpled on the floor in the corner, Flynn's blood all over it. He would have to burn it somewhere.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, wondered what to do. He took the envelope out of his shirt pocket. He tore it open and spilled the notes onto the bed. He counted them quickly. Five hundred pounds! He had asked for a thousand! The old bastard was trying to cheat him!

  He paced the room. What should he do? The steamer would be leaving in a few hours. No, that would be the first place Sergeant Clarke would check. No, he would have to stay in Broome for a while longer and brazen it out.

  Five hundred pounds! It was still a lot of money. But it wouldn't buy him very much if he had a rope around his neck.

  ***

  Cameron hardly slept that night. He woke just after
dawn, heard someone coming aboard. He jumped off his bunk and hurried up the scuttle.

  It was Sergeant Clarke. He had two of his constables with him. It was just light, and the sun was low over the flat horizon. It could not be much after six o'clock.

  'Good morning, sergeant,' Cameron said. 'You're calling very early.'

  'Morning, Cam.' Clarke looked uncomfortable. 'I'm sorry about this.'

  'Sorry? What are you sorry for?'

  Clarke smoothed the wings of his ginger walrus moustache with his fingers. 'I've a warrant for your arrest.'

  'You're arresting me?' Cameron put his hands on his hips. 'On what charge?'

  'The murder of Patrick Bernard Flynn.'

  'You're not serious?'

  'Like I said, I'm sorry, Cam.' He held out the handcuffs, then decided against them. Where would Cam run to? 'You didn't really do for him, did you?'

  Chapter 30

  two months later

  The court room was packed. The fans laboured overhead, it was breathless hot in the tiny courtroom. Cameron stood in the dock between two of Clarke's constables and looked out over the sea of faces searching for just one.

  But Kate would not look at him.

  Lacey was on the stand. Barrington, the Crown Prosecutor, consulted his notes through his pince-nez. 'Mister Lacey, in the statement you made to the police, you said that you were the first to find the body of the deceased. Is that correct?'

  Lacey looked uncomfortable in the suit and wing collar he had rented for the occasion. He squirmed in his chair. 'Deceased?'

  'The dead man,' Barrington said, his patience sorely tried. 'Mister Flynn.'

  'That's right. It was terrible, you could see his brains.'

  Barrington adjusted his spectacles. 'Thank you, Mister Lacey, there is no need for you to elaborate. A simple yes or no will suffice. Could you just tell us, in your own words, how you happened to find the body?'

  'We was in the Regret, having a few drinks, me and Jack and Tom.'

  'That is Mister McDonagh and Mister Gibson?'

  'That's right.' Lacey loosened his collar and leaned forward. 'We heard this yelling. 'Help me! Murder!' Like that. So we ran outside. The yelling was coming from the beach. When we got there we found Flynn lying on his back with his brains ...'

  'Thank you, Mister Lacey. Was anyone else present?'

  'Ay?'

  'Did you see anyone else?'

  'Nar, there weren't no one.'

  'I see.' Offended for the moment by the double negative, Barrington consulted his notes. 'And when did you first see the accused?'

  Lacey glanced at Cameron and pulled at his collar. 'It was later. After we hauled Flynn up to the street. He was breathing hard and there was blood all over him.'

  'Mister McKenzie had blood all over him?'

  'He did.'

  'Can you be more precise. Where was the blood, Mister Lacey?'

  'Everywhere.'

  'On his hands?'

  'Yeah, on his hands. On his trousers. On his shirt. Everywhere.'

  'I see,' Barrington said, heavily. 'Did Mister Cameron offer any explanation why he was covered in blood? He cut himself shaving perhaps?'

  Cameron's lawyer, Wingham, was on his feet in an instant. 'Objection!'

  The magistrate looked down his nose at the Crown Prosecutor. 'Mister Barrington ...'

  Barrington bowed. 'I withdraw the remark, Your Honour.'

  'Strike it from the record,' the magistrate said to the clerk. Then to Barrington: 'I don't expect to hear any more of that.'

  Barrington accepted the rebuke with equanimity. He smiled at the jury. 'I'll repeat the question. Did Mister Cameron give you any explanation as to why he was covered in blood?'

  'He said he'd found Flynn lying on the beach before we had.'

  Barrington looked puzzled. 'I see. But you say you were the first to find the body?'

  'Well, there weren't no one else there when we got there.'

  'So where was Mister McKenzie?'

  Lacey shrugged. 'I darno. He said he was chasing someone.'

  'Chasing someone?'

  'The bloke who did it, he said.'

  'I repeat, Mister Lacey, when you found the body, did you see anyone else on the beach?'

  'No, I didn't.'

  Barrington took a deep breath and looked at Cameron. 'Curious.' He scratched his wig, a fine portrayal of bewilderment. 'One more question, Mister Lacey. Did you ever hear the accused threaten the deceased ... Mister Flynn?'

  'Once.'

  'Please tell the court about it, if you will.'

  'It was the night of the riot. Some of the Koepangers had barricaded themselves into the Conti.'

  'The Conti?'

  'The Continental Hotel. Anyways, Sergeant Clarke had recruited a load of us blokes as special constables. We was standing on the steps when I heard him say it.'

  'Say what?'

  Lacey cleared his throat. 'He said to Flynn: 'I'll see you in hell for what you done to me.' '

  Barrington sucked on his teeth, turning to the jury to allow the dramatic impact to be absorbed. 'And what do you suppose he meant by that?'

  'It was common knowledge. Flynn stole a snide ...'

  Wingham jumped to his feet immediately. 'Objection, Your Honour! This is just hearsay!'

  'Sustained.'

  Barrington smiled at the jury, all long term residents of Broome, save three. They all knew the story, but it didn't hurt to remind them. 'Thank you, Mister Lacey, you've been most helpful.'

  ***

  Cameron sat on the edge of his cot and stared at the floor. He still could not believe this was happening. It was like being trapped in quicksand. At first the danger had seemed absurd, but the more he struggled, the deeper he had sunk. Now he was hopelessly trapped by a morass of half-truths and innuendo.

  He put his head in his hands and tried to think. The prosecution had established a clear motive. What did he have? Juts his word. The one thing that could have proved his story - the other man's footprints in the sand - had been obliterated by the crowd who had rushed down the beach when they heard Flynn's shouts for help.

  He heard footsteps on the stone floor and looked up. It was Sergeant Clarke. 'You've got a visitor.'

  Cameron stood up.

  Kate!

  A woman swept into the cell behind Clarke. She was slim and fair-haired. 'Five minutes, ma'am,' Clarke said to her. She waited patiently until he had gone, locking the door behind him. He remained on guard outside.

  'Hello, Cam.'

  'Rosie! What are you doing here, lass?'

  She put her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

  'You dinnae have to come,' he said.

  'Cam, I'm so afraid what they're going to do to you.'

  'I dinnae do it.'

  'I know.' She let him go and fumbled for a handkerchief. 'I'm sorry. You don't need me blubbing all over you.'

  'It will be all right,' he said to her. 'Don't take on so.'

  'How can it be all right? They're going to hang you, Cam!'

  'I tell you, I dinnae do it.'

  'And I'm the only one in Broome who believes you!' Rosie pulled his head towards her and whispered fiercely: 'Tell them you with me!'

  'I dinnae understand.'

  Rosie shot a glance towards the door. 'Don't you remember?' she whispered. 'I was with you. On the Roebuck.'

  Cam shook his head. 'You cannae do it, Rosie. Nae for me. It's perjury. They'll crucify you.'

  'I don't care! It doesn't matter what really happened. You've told the truth until now and what good has it done you? If you're innocent then you'd better start lying!'

  He stared at her. She was right, they were going to hang him. As far as the law and everyone else was concerned he looked guilty, and that was an end to it.

  'Rosie ...'

  'I won't let them do this to you,' she said. 'Sergeant Clarke!' He unlocked the door for her. Rosie turned back, kissed Cameron quickly on the mouth and left.

/>   Chapter 31

  The Crown Prosecutor called four other witnesses who had been present the night Cameron made his threat to Flynn. McDonagh and Gibson and several others corroborated Lacey's story of how Flynn had been found on the beach.

  Finally George Niland was called to the stand.

  He looked cool and respectable in his grey Tussore jacket and pearl tie pin and charcoal tailor-made trousers. He crossed his legs and leaned back in the bentwood chair, studying Barrington down the length of his nose.

  After the preliminaries, Barrington asked: 'Mister Niland, you were, I believe, the last person to see the deceased alive.'

  'I assume so ... apart from the murderer, of course.' He glanced across the room at Cameron. The jury followed his eyes. You motherless bastard, Cameron thought.

  'The deceased was your father-in-law, that is correct?'

  'Yes.'

  'And where was the deceased living at the time of the murder?'

  'He was staying with us at our home. He was intending to return to Perth at the end of the month.'

  'Do you recall your last conversation?'

  'Yes, I do. We were on the veranda. My wife had gone to bed.'

  'And what did you discuss?'

  George hesitated for the first time. 'Personal matters.'

  Barrington frowned and consulted his notes. 'Did you not say in your statement that the accused's name was mentioned?'

  George glanced at Cameron, then at the jury.

  'Mister Niland?'

  'I believe I was mistaken.'

  'But you said in your statement that the deceased appeared to be angry with Mister McKenzie and said he was going to look for him?'

  George appeared flustered. 'He might have done ... '

  'In your statement ...'

  George tugged at his moustache. 'Patrick ... Mister Flynn could fly off the handle pretty easily. He didn't always mean what he said.' He looked across at the jury once more. 'He was full of hot air.'

 

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